My Brother Married My Sister. Where DO I Sit?

I was presently living in Manhattan and decided to make a surprise trip home to see my family. My dear friend Brad offered to pick me up at the closest airport, the urbane Evansville, Indiana. Only one year prior, I had moved to New York City with one suitcase, one thousand dollars and one huge dream to live the Big Apple life. I was happy to leave behind the corn fields and soybeans so I could stamp my own unique imprint in the famous concrete jungle.

The next day I was on my way to JFK for my flight to Chicago. While walking towards the gate, a Godiva boutique caught my eye. I spotted a gigantic gold oval $120 tin of assorted chocolates with pristine vellum wrapping. Wouldn’t this be a wonderful gift for my mother?

My flight to O’Hare flew by and I was now waiting to board my connecting plane to Evansville. What a nightmare! Our luxurious jet looked as if it had just returned from its’ third tour of duty in Sarajevo. I perused my interior surroundings and observed 6 passengers, 6 seats the size of sausage casings and a total of 6 biscupids. I, being 6 feet 4 inches tall, was selected for exit row duty, which in this petite air bus meant my ears would be strategically adjacent to the engine’s mellifluous muffler, a diabolical chamber whose decibels registered high enough to qualify as an unofficial form of rendition used to interrogate suspected Al-quieda terrorists. My migraine subsided as we began to land.

I was feeling excited to be reunited with my loved ones. I assumed my beloved friend Brad would be waiting for me at baggage claim. Silly me. I searched everywhere in the tiny terminal but he was nowhere to be found. This was before the era of cell phones so I felt stranded. My parent’s home was still 85 miles away. I placed my luggage by an empty row of seats and approached the counter to ask if this was the only place where people would assemble to await the arrival of their guests. He nodded so I returned to my seat only to find an old woman sitting in it.

She was wearing a charcoal gray skirt with matching jacket, pink cashmere sweater, mother of pearl necklace, brown knee high boots and a flattering fedora with a sky blue satin sashaying scarf tied around her hat. That crazy bitch had my golden tin of Godiva chocolates in her nimble hands and had ripped away the pristine plastic covering and had three of my expensive gourmet truffles hurled in her boca. I looked at her with utter disdain and said, “what the hell are you doing?” I was a livid New Yorker now and was about to call security.

At this moment, her little rosy rouged face looked up at me and I realized it was indeed my zany pal Brad in full drag regalia! I instantly fell to the floor in rotating convulsions of uncontrollable laughter, tears and snorts. This scene attracted a bit of attention from our fellow Hoosiers. Not only was Brad dressed as a woman, he had embodied the Dustin Hoffman female character ‘Dorothy Michaels’ and was speaking in perfect ‘Tootsie’ voice. After helping me stand up, Dorothy proceeded to ask a nearby innocent elderly man, “Oh my stars! What a remarkably handsome fellow. You are strangely reminiscent of my deceased fourth husband, George Gagoon. Would you mind taking a photo of my son and myself? His name is Karl. He lives in Manhattan, is quite successful, and could buy and sell us both to Tangiers. Thank you very much.” The poor doddery soul had not a clue that my senior citizen ‘Mother Tootsie’ was really a man in his twenties. After ‘Dorothy’ used the women’s facilities, we walked to the parking lot and sped away. I asked, “Mother, where are we going and when are you changing your clothes and removing your pancake makeup and lipstick?” Still in character, Ms. Tootsie replied, “I am treating my son to a classy dinner and why on God’s green Earth would I change this gorgeous ensemble? I am what I am!”